


In the Creaking Night

by ForeverNever



Category: Chris Hemsworth RPF, Hiddlesworth RPF, Tom Hiddleston RPF
Genre: AU, M/M, Somnophilia, Underage - Freeform, dubious consent??, historic AU, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverNever/pseuds/ForeverNever
Summary: Chris was hired by the Hiddlestons to tutor their only child, a fifteen year old named Tom. It was innocent, it really was, but....Chris is glad Tom is a heavy sleeper.





	In the Creaking Night

**Author's Note:**

> Like always, this is a fantasy and nothing but. This kind of power imbalance/dubious consent/terrible communication/etc. is not healthy and should not be indulged in outside of fantasy. 
> 
> OKAY, here we go! Historic AU. Hope y'all like it.

Tom was a deep sleeper. Chris had noticed it a few weeks after he had arrived at the manor, when he had accidentally entered the wrong room and Tom didn't so much as stir--it was a large manor, and Chris had found himself often stumbling into corners that were familiar in hopes that he’d find himself magically where he needed to be. He’d found his way around, after about a month of living here, but in all his years as a lad’s tutor he had never been in such a large estate. The Hiddleston family had more money than they rightfully knew what to do with. Not that he could complain, now that he was on their payroll. 

 

Tom was their only child, a boy of fifteen, and they had hired Chris seven months ago to tutor the lad in his studies. They got on well, Chris and Tom, better than Chris anticipated. Despite his age Tom was intelligent, sensitive, and far more mature than any fifteen year old Chris had met, let alone tutored. He was still young, and a little naive, but he was already shaping up to be an incredible man. He and Chris were almost...friends. 

 

Chris honestly didn't know how it became what it was now. 

 

Tom didn't know, of course--nothing was really different. They still laughed like normal, jested with each other during lessons, spent precious time talking in the gardens or the halls when they happened to cross paths there. Tom still looked at him with those big, discerning eyes, too wise for his age, still asked the most fascinating questions and treated Chris like a rare treasure. Chris supposed any human contact out here in the countryside would be. But for Chris, things had changed. 

 

It was the spark of mischief in Tom’s eyes, maybe, or the cupid’s bow of his sweet pink mouth. Or his long, dainty fingers and soft little hands. Maybe it was his curly hair and pixie face, which gave him an air of almost otherworldly brilliance even when he was stuffed into the most high-fashion suits money could buy. He seemed to transcend, somehow, like he was more than this little bubble of existence that was all Chris had ever known. Chris didn't know what it was, but it made him thirst. 

 

He hadn't known what to do with it, had tried to dismiss it (it had been so long for him, he reasoned, he just needed to go into town on his day off and see if he could find someone to warm a bed with.) But nothing he did worked, no one he tried to force himself to find fancy with could hold his interest. He had finally admitted it, finally gave words to what he’d already known. Tom Hiddleston, for some reason beyond Chris’ comprehension, held a strong sway on Chris’ mind and heart. 

 

It was almost like witchcraft, and maybe it was, but Chris found that he honestly didn't care. 

 

Chris spent his days with Tom, and his nights one of two ways. Either he lay awake, fantasizing innocently of all the things that Tom was--good and bad, Chris wanted it all--or he tucked his hand under the covers and dreamed up a thousand ways to dirty them both. 

 

It was his own fault, Chris decided, this depravity. And he did his best to hide it from Tom, since he knew that all the subtle hints were just in his head. Tom didn't really bat his eyelashes like that, and he'd always chewed on his eraser or his lip when he concentrated. If he did it more now it was only because Chris was giving him more challenging work as he grew. But Chris let himself believe, sometimes, though he knew that a real relationship with Tom was something he could never have. 

 

That was how the visits started. 

 

In Chris’ defense, he had been exceedingly drunk the first time. He had gone into town to drink away his despair, to try drowning his longing with alcohol since he'd heard that worked for others and he was desperate. He had made arrangements to stay at a shoddy inn next to the bar, and had fully intended to sleep off his hangover there, but in his addled state a few things occurred to him: first, that Tom was an exceedingly deep sleeper, as he’d learned, and second, that Tom was all alone in that huge and hulking house. 

 

The Hiddleston parents travelled more than they were home, and though they had remained at the manor through the first month of Chris’ employment to ensure his capacity he had rarely seen them since. They would often be gone for weeks, months at a time, and it was up to Chris to care for his young charge. The thought of Tom, so small and pale, in his huge bed in his huge home where anything could be happening without Chris there to protect him, sent a sharp flare of protectiveness through Chris’ chest. He had never felt the likes of it before, and drink or no drink he had known immediately that he was over his head. Tom had him wrapped around one dainty finger and he didn't even know it. 

 

Chris had hurried back, forced to stumble through the streets through town and then down the long, long, impossibly long gravel road that led to the Hiddleston manor. But he had gone as quick as he could, the fear that Tom could be hurting or scared or in need of defending spurring him on. 

 

He had finally made it into the manor, up the regal staircase, through the winding halls, and into Tom’s room. He needed to check on Tom, he thought, he needed to make sure Tom was okay. Unhurt. Unafraid. 

 

And Tom was. Only, standing over Tom’s blissfully sleeping form, Chris’ thoughts started to turn. They were alone in the house. And Tom was so beautiful, with the moonlight caressing his face and his curls resting softly against his pillow. And Tom was a deep sleeper, hadn't woken up even though Chris couldn't have been quiet coming in here if he'd tried, his slim chest rising and falling under the covers unhurriedly. Yes, he was asleep. He wouldn't wake. He wouldn't know. It couldn't hurt. 

 

Waking up the next day, with the afternoon sun stabbing his eyes and his throat like sandpaper, Chris couldn't remember how his cock had gotten into his hand. He couldn't remember how loud he’d been, or if he’d touched Tom at all. But he knew what he’d done, he knew how he’d bared his aching manhood and slid his dry fist over it until it hurt, until his hot seed had splattered over Tom’s angelic face. He knew how it had landed, some on Tom’s ear, some on his cheek, a drop or two lacing his long, long lashes. And he couldn't fathom his own sin. 

 

He had laid in bed, loathing himself so much that he didn't think he was worth a glass of water if he was in the driest desert, until his pounding head and full bladder forced him up. No matter how much he wished he could just die there in that bed, his body wouldn't consent. He had stumbled into the adjoining washroom, relieving himself and washing out his sour mouth with an absolute apathy that was unlike him, until panic lanced through him suddenly and painfully, forcing him into full alertness. 

 

_ Had he cleaned Tom off? _

 

The question, and the fact that he couldn't remember the answer to it, made Chris rush to dress. He had to find Tom  _ now, _ had to make sure--make sure--what? What could Chris possibly say? If he hadn't washed Tom’s face, then there was little chance Tom wouldn't recognize the substance. He was, after all, a boy of a certain age, and he was too intelligent to think that he had somehow cum on himself in the night. His nightgown and sheets were completely unmarred, and in any case how could he have come in such a way that his spend would stripe across his face? From chin to forehead, maybe, with enough contorting, but that would take conscious effort and in any case Chris’ cum had drawn a line from Tom’s nose to his temple. The wrong direction. 

 

Chris had just enough sense left in him to tidy himself before he went down, straightening his waistcoat, taming his matted hair, putting on enough cologne that hopefully the stench of spirits would be indiscernible. It would do him no favors to stand before Tom still reeking of alcohol and disheveled, regardless of whether Tom knew or not. 

 

The servants, all of whom lived in servant's housing behind the manor, directed him kindly to the library. Yes, Tom could always be found there, even on a Sunday such as this. Even when Chris held no lessons, Tom wanted to learn. A rush of affection filled Chris when he saw Tom sitting, nose in a book, with tea before him, and that affection scared Chris more in that moment than it ever had before. If Tom knew, he would hate Chris. He would tell his parents and Chris would be sent away, unable to ever find employment again--and unable to see Tom look so horribly at peace in a room filled with nothing but books. 

 

Tom had looked up, locked eyes with Chris, and smiled. His face was clean, and his hair too, though Chris was uncertain whether any cum had splattered there. His smile was unguarded, and Chris began to have hope that things could continue as they were. Maybe Tom didn't know. 

 

“Good day, Mr. Hemsworth,” Tom said, all charming accent and a little head tilt. “I thought you said you’d be the night in the town?” Right, yes, Chris had warned him that he’d be out all night. He'd called it a business matter, but he suspected Tom knew the truth. 

 

“Yes, well, matters finished earlier than I expected,” Chris said, squinting at the sun coming in from the windows. “What are you reading?” 

 

“The writings of Thomas Aquinas,” Tom said, glancing down at his open book before turning astute eyes back on Chris. “Are you feeling well? You look slightly ill.”

 

“Just the price to pay for a late night,” Chris said, trying to smile. His heart was beginning to steady again, but his head still drummed incessantly. “It gets harder, when you get to be my age.”

 

Tom didn't giggle as he normally did when Chris jested about his years, eyes turned up in concern. “Well, feel free to sit if you like,” Tom said, “and have a spot of tea. It's made with skullcap, I had the maids make me some. It ought to help drive away your aches.” 

 

“Do you hurt this morning?” Chris asked, gratefully taking a seat. Oh, his head throbbed. 

 

“I had, when it was still morning,” Tom grinned, a hint of his usual mischief shining through. Chris chuckled. “Anyway,” Tom said as he poured Chris a steaming cup of tea, “it was just the usual ache of sleeping oddly. I must have contorted myself somehow.” 

 

Chris hoped that an odd sleeping position was all it was. He still couldn't remember if he’d laid a hand on his sleeping charge. He would never forgive himself if he had. 

 

“How did you sleep?” Chris asked, keeping his tone conversational and light. “The house didn't keep you awake with its groaning, did it?” 

 

“For a while,” Tom said, handing Chris the cup. Chris breathed in the fragrant steam with a sigh. “It's harder to ignore the noises when you know you're alone. There's something about an empty house that allows the imagination to delve into darker places. But once I fell asleep I slept through the night.” 

 

“I'm sorry to have left you,” Chris said, “but I shan't have to go into town overnight again.” He swore he would never, ever touch a flagon again--and he would never,  _ ever  _ repeat his other actions of the night. Never. 

 

And yet somehow he had. And he kept doing it. 

 

It was weakness, really, that kept him coming back. He had gotten a taste and now he couldn't stay away, and he found that he hated himself less and less for it as of late. He'd learned, too, how to prepare--he needed a bowl of hot water, which would be lukewarm by the time the act was finished, and a soft rag to wipe away the evidence. And he knew just how much noise he could make before Tom would stir, and how long to wait after Tom went still again to be sure Tom was truly back asleep. Tom still didn't know, and Chris got more and more daring--but there was one rule he was determined to keep sacred. He wouldn't touch Tom, he wouldn't, he wouldn't take a person so precious and sully him by taking without permission. Somehow he'd gotten the idea that his own pleasure didn't hurt Tom, as long as Tom was kept unaware, but Chris would never lay a finger on his sweetest darling. 

 

Still, he'd never done anything this risky.  

 

The Hiddleston parents had returned from a cruise two weeks ago, and it was the longest they'd been home since they'd started traveling. And Chris--Chris couldn't take it anymore. 

 

It was foolish, he knew. And wild, too; maybe bordering on mad. But he was so pent up, his balls heavy with unused spend, and fantasies no longer gave him release. 

 

So he snuck into Tom's bedroom, with his water and his rag and a little bit of oil for his hand, and a prayer to God (if God had not turned from him completely) that Tom’s parents slept as well as their son. They were several hallways over, but just knowing they were in the same building made Chris’ skin crackle with nervous anticipation. But it had been so long, _God_ it had been so long and he _needed_ _this_. He couldn't wait three more nights until the house was empty, he just couldn't. 

 

As always, Tom was nothing short of angelic in his sleep. Chris couldn't help but stare dumbly at Tom’s gently slumbering form, the softness of his hand where it rested, palm up, beside his face. How Chris wished he could stare like this during the day, or crawl under the sheets and just exist beside Tom, not touching but marveling in the intimate closeness. But he couldn't have that, and so he would have to make do with this instead. 

 

It didn’t take long for a stirring to start in Chris’ loins. Just looking at Tom--his fluttering lashes, parted lips, brow smoothed from all worries--and knowing what came next was enough for that. There was a part of Chris that told him to make it quick, get out of there before Tom’s parents could wake up, but Chris had learned that it was better to be slow. To take his time, revel in this moment and forget for an instant how terribly, horribly wrong this was. 

 

Still, he allowed for some caution, rubbing himself through his trousers until he was hard enough for the constriction to be uncomfortable. Tom was so beautiful, and tonight he was lying on his back. He rarely ever did that, most often sleeping on his side, and Chris knew Tom must have been truly tired to fall asleep in that position. It must have been the long horse ride that his father had insisted they go on. Tom was a graceful rider, but Chris had learned early on not to accompany Tom on rides. The way Tom's slim hips had to sway with the horse, or the way his pert little rear bounced in the horse’s back, would send Chris into a state. 

 

Chris let his imagination linger there a moment. He imagined that Tom would be just as graceful riding his cock, mewling as Chris hit that spot inside him. He'd be so hot, and so tight. Chris wondered if Tom ever dallied with himself in that way, if he ever slid his slim fingers into himself. He wondered if Tom was gay. 

 

Chris unbuttoned his trousers, letting his stiff cock fall into his hand. It was always so incredible to see his manhood up against Tom’s face. It’s just--Tom was so small, at least compared to Chris, and Chris was a well-endowed man. As he stroked himself slowly, blowing on the coals of his desire, he thought about it for the millionth time: would Tom be able to take him? It seemed so improbable, like Tom wouldn’t even be able to fit him in that sweet little cherub mouth. But oh, Chris wanted to see him try. Chris wanted to see Tom look up at him with those beautiful eyes as he let his lips seal around the head, his pink kitten tongue lapping at the slit. He wanted to imagine Tom trying his naive best to please Chris, take Chris as deep as he could, he wanted to teach Tom all the ways to play with his body. He wanted to say, “Careful, baby, don’t hurt your pretty throat” when Tom tried too hard and gagged, spittle running down his chin. 

 

He imagined that Tom would get hard, like that. Not at the beginning, of course, but some people truly learned to love sucking cock. Maybe Tom would be one of them. Maybe, over the course of months or years, Tom would come to love it so much he begged for it, begged to get Chris hard and aching so he could slide home into Tom’s willing body. Willing, always willing. None of this secrecy, none of this lying. Chris’s hand sped up. 

 

Maybe it would take time to stretch Tom out enough to take Chris’ cock. Chris wouldn’t mind. Chris would bet anything that he could spend days on end just fingering Tom until he was loose and easy, fingering him until he spilled all over himself. Oh, God, Chris wondered about Tom’s expressions. About what he would look like in orgasm. Beautiful, for sure--enough to have Chris spinning in his own affection and arousal. Chris was sure Tom’s moans would be their own aphrodisiac. 

 

Chris reached for the oil absently, pouring just enough on his hand. He didn’t want it too smooth, he wanted to be able to feel his callouses as he jerked himself. Tom wouldn’t have callouses, his hands smooth and unblemished from his years in libraries. Maybe his fingers would have the dark stains of ink on them as he ran them over Chris’ shaft, an image all too vivid in Chris’ mind. It would be the only time his skin would be darker than Chris’, tanned from a youth on a farm that never seemed to leave him, but Tom never seemed to mind Chris’ appearance. Sometimes out of the corner of his eye Chris thought he caught Tom’s eyes on him, and for just these next few minutes he chose to believe that those glances were real. 

 

Chris’ hand covered his cock well, and he wondered if Tom’s hands would seem small in comparison. They were daintier, thinner, but his fingers were long. Chris was sure that if he were to hold Tom’s face as they kissed, or his hips as they rutted, or Tom’s cock in the moment before orgasm, then his larger hands would almost swallow Tom’s peach skin. Tom’s cum would stand out so starkly against Chris’ hand, or his stomach, or his mouth. Chris gasped quietly. He didn’t often think about placing his mouth over Tom’s cock, though he imagined it everywhere else, but in that moment he wanted so badly to watch Tom’s eyes roll back as Chris swallowed him down. Chris was sure no one had ever done that for Tom, and he wanted to see the surprise, the pleasure that would spread over Tom’s sweet features as he tipped his head back to moan. 

 

Chris had had male lovers before, he had put manhoods in his mouth, but somehow he felt like he would enjoy it more doing it to Tom. Tom was just so expressive, always, and Chris had to believe that leaked over into sex. Chris wanted to savor every flickering expression on that angelic face. His hand started pumping faster, the coil in his stomach heating with every passing thought. Chris grunted quietly, knowing that soft sounds wouldn't wake Tom from his sleep. Still, he took care not to be as loud as he could be; he had learned long ago the balance he could strike with Tom, but in the back of his mind he still knew that Tom’s parents were just a few corners away. 

 

For a moment Chris let nothing but his panting and the slick of his fist over his cock fill the room, though he imagined the noises Tom would make alongside his own and was spurred on by the thought. But already his balls were pulling up, his whole body was tensing. He normally lasted longer than this--but it had been so long, and he couldn't control his hand’s frantic pace any more. He was almost disappointed in himself, embarrassed as though Tom were awake to see him spill so soon. But oh, he longed to have that crest wash over him…

 

Chris opened his eyes, which had at some point squeezed closed, and trained his fuzzing vision on Tom. This was his favorite part, watching his spend splash across Tom’s perfect features in a final show of utter debauchery. Tom’s head had lolled to the side so that his face was turned to Chris’ cock, like a flower turning up to the rain. With his legs quaking almost too hard to hold himself up, Chris got a flash of a notion that, even in his sleep, Tom somehow knew what Chris was doing and subconsciously offered his skin for Chris’ release, and that was all it took. 

 

Perhaps because of the time he had spent abstaining, or perhaps because of the threat of being caught, Chris’ orgasm was powerful enough to shake his very bones. Chris couldn't even hear his own grunting moans over the blood rushing in his ears, the rush of white hot pleasure blurring the lines between satisfaction and pain until Chris’ mind was utterly blank with it. 

 

When it ended Chris had to lean one arm on the nightstand to stay standing. He was past the age where orgasms turned him to putty, but this time he could only liken the intensity to those he had experienced as a teenager. He caught his breath slowly, eyes lovingly taking in the beautiful mess he had made of his student. Some of Chris’ come had fallen in an almost delicate line across Tom’s pink lips, and as Chris stared, trying to memorize the image, Tom’s perfect pink tongue darted out and licked it off. It was an innocent action, completely automatic to Tom’s sleeping body, but the sheer eroticism knocked a groan out of Chris’ barrel chest. 

 

Then Tom’s head rolled to the other side, and Chris knew he had to clean his mess and be back to his own room. His breath was now mostly even, and he could not press his luck. He turned fully to the nightstand and grabbed the soft cloth he had brought, wiping himself off and tucking his manhood back into his trousers before wetting the corner with the water. As he turned back to Tom’s bed, however, his eyes caught on something he had not seen with his eyes trained on Tom’s face. 

 

Beneath the sheets was the unmistakable bulge of Tom’s erection. 

 

Chris froze, staring at it as his morality warred with itself. Tom, sweet and mischievous Tom, lay before him like a banquet, his cock aching between his thin legs. Chris could relieve him, could give him release and nirvana. Chris could take care of him like he'd always yearned to. But he had sworn, had vowed that he would never touch Tom, and he meant it. He wouldn't dirty such a beautiful, kind creature. 

 

Chris looked at his hand numbly as it travelled on its own through empty space and towards Tom’s body. Would it really count as dirtying him if Chris sought only Tom’s pleasure?  Surely it couldn't be so bad just to ease Tom’s body. And Tom was a deep sleeper. 

 

Tom didn't move when Chris’ big hand rested lightly on the bulge, though he breathed out the smallest sigh. His breathing was still deep--clearly he still slept. Chris applied some pressure, eyes sharp on Tom’s face, but when Tom didn't stir Chris started gently kneading Tom’s cock through the sheets. It was  _ euphoric.  _

 

Chris’ imaginings were silent as he gazed, wide-eyed, at Tom’s covered form. It didn't take long for Tom to start reacting, brows furrowing slightly as his breathing quickened. Chris was stunned at how  _ hard _ Tom was, even through the layers of fabric. He must have been restraining himself as well, with his family home. The thought sent a powerful wave of joy through Chris, as if this minor detail connected them somehow. 

 

He wondered what Tom thought about when he fisted himself, if it was anything like what Chris imagined. He was quite sure that no one had ever touched Tom like this, and it sent a giddiness and a guilt through him. He almost stopped, almost turned and left, because Tom deserved better than this--but then Tom’s slim hips were pumping upwards lazily, automatically, and Chris was rooted to the spot. 

 

Tom seemed larger than Chris had ever anticipated. Not as wide in girth as Chris, but long and arched up toward his flat stomach. As Chris pumped him, learning his body, Tom started to wriggle just a little--still sleeping but writhing slowly on his sheets like a lover. Chris felt his heart flutter. He wanted to soak this in. He wanted to see all of it, in his mind’s eye, forever. 

 

It was with that impulse in his mind that he slowly peeled away the covers, leaving Tom only in his nightgown. He went slowly, not wanting the shock of sudden cold to bring Tom lurching out of sleep. Somehow it was erotic to be revealing Tom’s sleeping clothes, as if he wore no clothing at all and Chris was baring his gorgeous skin for worship by Chris’ eyes, his hands, his mouth. Chris swallowed heavily. Tom’s nightgown was thin and delicate, not unlike Tom himself, and Chris could see the darkness of Tom’s nipples through the white fabric. 

 

Tom whined softly, body instinctively moving to gain back the pressure Chris was no longer applying, and Chris’ eyes rolled down Tom’s body to his wriggling hips.  _ Oh, hell. _ Tom’s arousal was evident, tenting his nightgown so much that the fabric had rucked up, revealing just a hint of Tom’s hanging sac. Chris allowed himself a quiet moan--so much skin, so much soft and creamy skin, in such untouched places--that grew the smallest amount when he saw how damp the cotton was over Tom’s cockhead. 

 

Chris didn’t make him wait, resting one large hand against Tom’s straining erection and earning him a sigh. The crease between Tom’s brows smoothed and Chris found that he wanted to be the reason Tom felt safe, always. Chris started kneading gently, letting the fabric rasp against Tom’s cock for a while while he marvelled at the length and warmth in his hand. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He knew, dimly, that he would hate himself later, and he didn’t stop. 

 

It wasn’t long before Tom was undulating again, tiny breaths and sounds falling from his lips. Still sleeping. Even when Tom’s hand moved, arm flopping gracelessly onto Tom’s chest, Chris did not stop--he moved faster even, thinking that perhaps Tom’s sleeping brain sought more and so was trying to make Tom’s body touch itself. Chris bit his lip and used his other hand to edge up Tom’s sleeping gown, baring him from the navel down. 

 

Chris’ breath rushed from him in a gust, taking in the sight for the very first time. Tom’s body was so sweet, lanky and lean and with still a little baby fat, and Tom was  _ hard. _ So hard. His cock was red, almost purple, the vein on the underside standing out so much that Chris could see it pulsing with Tom’s racing heartbeat. Chris’ own heart thundered in his chest. 

 

He wanted to savor this moment, but feared Tom waking from sexual frustration. It was a dim fear, all thought pushed unwisely to the back of his mind, but it was there enough for Chris to keep himself moving. Tom’s cock was warm and dry in his hand, powder-soft and glistening at the tip. Chris’ hand covered the whole thing. Just as small and sweet as Tom himself, though Chris could tell Tom would grow more yet. Tom gasped at the contact, eyebrows furrowing in pleasure now. He looked impossibly delicious. 

 

It didn’t take long for Tom to start rolling his unconscious body into Chris’ hand, allowing Chris to focus on the twist of his wrist instead of the vertical motion. He wanted to wring out the most lovely orgasm of Tom’s young life. He threw himself into the act, everything else fading into little gasps and moans and the sweat dripping down Chris’ back. If Tom was being too loud, Chris wasn’t noticing it. He was dedicated to his task, watching every twitch of Tom’s thighs and abs and detailing the reasons for each. He wanted to learn to play Tom’s body like the beautiful instrument it was. 

When Tom’s short groans turned into more sustained whines Chris knew--he knew it was coming, knew the brightness of that peak was just beyond his grasp--he wanted Tom to have the greatest orgasm Chris could give him--he wanted to  _ witness. _

 

And, suddenly, the bone-deep desire to suck down everything Tom gave him rushed back into the forefront of his mind. 

 

Chris was just in time, ducking down and sealing his lips around the dark head as the first bitter splash made its way free. Tom stuttered on his gasp, hips bucking at the unexpected sensation, and Chris let Tom forge deeper. This close Chris could watch the tensing of Tom’s lean stomach as he emptied himself. He wished he could see Tom’s testes pulling up. But oh, the  _ taste, _ oh, it was perfect. Bitter but watery, washing down Chris’ throat. He groaned. Tom grunted like he’d been gutted. 

 

And the best, the very best part, was the way that Tom’s hand tangled in Chris’ hair by instinct, holding him down and giving them both what they needed. Chris couldn’t come again so soon, but the glow that filled him made him think that maybe the impossible had happened. 

 

Then Tom softened in Chris’ mouth, and with Chris slowly slid off. He was suffused with a contentedness he didn’t know he needed. The water was a little cooler now, but he cleaned Tom with a fond gentility. The poor thing must have truly been tired; he was still asleep. Chris kissed Tom on the forehead, gathered his things, and slipped out. Someday, he told himself, someday he would lie giggling with Tom in the afterglow. Until then. 

 

Tom waited a few extra moments until he was sure Chris wasn’t coming back, then let himself gush out a sigh. Chris hadn’t touched him since that first night--the night he was drunk--and Tom really thought it would never happen again. And not like...like that. He was so boneless. He wasn’t sure how he kept his voice down when Chris swallowed him like that, but he did know one thing: he was so, so glad he was a light sleeper.  


End file.
